


Dopamine

by psychedelicmoon (orphan_account)



Series: Cherry Wine - one shots [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Blood and Violence, Bottom Louis, Dark Character, Forbidden Love, M/M, Murder, One Shot, Summer, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/psychedelicmoon
Summary: The Murderer and his beautiful, beautiful boy.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: Cherry Wine - one shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676323
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Dopamine

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Harry and Louis are both murderers, they murder for the thrill.

**_DOPAMINE_ **

_If I lay really quite, I know that what I do isn't right_  
_I can't stop what I love to do_  
_So I murder love in the night_  
_Watching them fall one by one, they fight_  
_Do you think you'll love me too?_

_You can see me drinking cherry cola_  
_Sweet serial killer_  
_I left a love note said "you know I love the thrill of the rush"_

_Sneak up on you, really quite_  
_Whisper "am I what your heart desires?" I could be your ingenue_

_Keep you safe and inspired_  
_Baby, let your fantasies unwind_  
_We can do what you want to do_

_\- Lana Del Rey, Serial Killer_

__

They made a strange picture.

One of them was a boy with wild feathery hair, badly in need of a cut, that only served to endear his rosy cheeks and cherubic face. He was wearing a too-big singlet that hung off his tanned-brown body, and denim shorts that were, once again, too big. He had a popsicle in one hand, fingers covered in the sticky residue. He was lying on his back on the side of a hill, knees bent, legs slender and youthful. He had one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the sky thoughtfully.

Beside him sat a suave man in a suit, his soft looking curly hair reaching just below his ears. There was a briefcase next to him, and he looked so out of place, so proper, next to the boy, baking in the summer sun. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and he raised a hand to wipe it away.

Those that passed considered the pair only passingly; assuming that they were father and son, perhaps. _The boy must look like his mother,_ they would think, and then they would look again at the older gentleman, spellbound by his strongly-built, almost cadaverous face. His cheekbones. His jaw. His curved lips and dark, impenetrable eyes.

Then they would look at the chocolate-haired boy, and wonder. Wonder who these two were.

Then they would move along.

“Do you wish to swim?” Harry asked quietly, watching the beach before them.

“No,” Louis replied, “it’s nice here.”

“I thought you had plans for today.”

Louis parted his lips, and sucked tantalisingly on his popsicle, insolently not bothering to reply. Harry dryly considered him, fully aware that Louis knew the power of his allure all too well. They had done this six times this month alone; gone to the beach, where Louis would swim and laugh and giggle, and men would approach him, men that would buy him ice creams and drive him home. Harry would follow. Louis would touch them, moaning and gasping like he was just an innocent boy. His age seemed to change every time; nineteen, sixteen, younger. A college student, a schoolboy, a tourist. Whatever it took to lure them in.

Harry would follow, and they would bathe in blood together. In pastel kitchens, in beige bathrooms, in white hotel rooms. Painting it red, splashing the colour around, Louis euphoric and naked and bright-eyed with the thrill.

In reality, Louis was twenty-three. He was some kind of a nymph, some kind of boy-god, that Harry had seen splashing about in the water with all the abandon of a pre-schooler. He’d followed him, seen him seduce men, seen him hypnotise them. He’d watched the kill. Seen the deed. Felt the warmth inside him as he watched the young seducer allow himself to be guided into a bed by older, stronger hands, allowed himself to be touched, moaning and gasping into bedsheets. Watching the act through a window, hidden in the darkness.

Louis had looked him in the eyes as the man pushed into him, and Harry had started, curiosity filling him as he realised that the boy knew he was there. He'd understood, later, when the boy had produced a flip knife, slit the man's throat.

He had known, then, what the boy was.

“It’s hot, Louis. If we have not come for a purpose, why are we here?”

Louis smirked up at him, blue eyes mischievous. “I like seeing you squirm.”

“How terribly rude of you.”

“Mm,” Louis drew his tongue up the length of the popsicle, an utterly obvious seduction that should’ve proved comical, yet only served to make Harry’s chest tighten, his breath quicken, “but you love it, don’t you?”

Harry swallowed. Oh, how he wished he could kill this boy. Maybe, one day, he would. He would best this desire, this craving within. He didn’t enjoy being controlled, being a slave to this boy’s whims; yet he was so helpless to it, so willing to be bested and tempted.

“You wish,” Louis continued slowly, “that we were back at your home now. So I could climb in your lap. You want that, don’t you? Me in your lap?”

Harry met his eyes, smiling; the kind of smile that many men had seen before they had taken their final breaths. It was only Louis that was unafraid of that smile; only Louis that enjoyed pushing him, grating at him, taunting him, unafraid of the consequences.

Harry did not enjoy being mocked, yet he never tired of these games.

“I do,” he replied.

“You want to watch me take a life. My hands covered in blood. Don’t you?” Louis’ voice was high, so youthful, so childlike. “Harry?”

“You know I do.”

He reached over, drew a thumb over Louis’ mouth. His pink lips. Risky, to touch him this way in public. They would surely be prosecuted for it. But no power in the world could come between them, like this. The Murderer and his beautiful boy.

Harry lifted his hand to his mouth, licked the popsicle’s stickiness from his thumb. Louis smiled. They maintained eye contact. Steady. Wanting. Equal.

“I am not the men you kill, Louis. You do not have to seduce me.”

“But I want to,” Louis replied, “and you want me to. You want me like this.” One of his hands wandered down his chest, fingers searching, coming to rest tantalisingly on his stomach. Not close enough. Not nearly.

“You want me,” Louis breathed, “on my back. Under you. You want to be inside me. _”_

Harry was becoming impatient. “Come. I’m taking you home.”

Louis smiled angelically, so innocent. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

__

He moved inside Louis.

So warm, so tight, so _young_. He placed his hands on Louis’ hips, heels of his hands digging into skin, fingers fanned over his flat stomach. Louis arched off the bed, eyes half-lidded, moisture from the hot weather making his eyelashes wet, his face shine, his body damp. In the half-light of the room, he was shades of brown and pink, his eyes as blue and unburdened as the sky outside.

Harry enjoyed comparing him to the sky. To that vast expanse of space. Without conscience, without mercy, and without intent. It simply existed to be beautiful. It simply _was_.

“Harry,” Louis gasped, “you feel so good,”

Harry leaned down, pressed his lips to a sweat-moistened throat, rolled his hips in a slow circle, feeling Louis’ legs rise, wrap around him.

“Inside me,” Louis panted, “inside me, I love it when you’re inside me-”

“And do you tell all the men that?” Harry drew his teeth over skin, slowly, pressing his tongue into brown skin. “When you allow them to touch you? When you allow them to take you?” He thrust his hips forward, hard, heard Louis let out a choked moan, “Like this?”

“I do,” Louis arched his neck, “but it’s a lie.”

“Is it?” Harry lifted his head, regarded him. Louis’ cheeks were pink, his wet lips parted, his face desperate. He was a bared nerve, an open book, never failing to fall submissively under Harry’s hand. He loved it. He needed it.

“Yes,” Louis breathed “I love you, you know that-”

“Or,” Harry asked, still moving his hips, hands braced either side of his boy, “are you a sultry seducer, who opens his legs for any man who looks his way?”

Louis blushed furiously. “Don’t say that. You know that I-”

“That you are a whore?” Harry pushed deeper, harder, and watched the way Louis shook.

“Stop it, Harry-”

“Look at you, like this.” Harry smirked, teasing him. Taking his revenge. “Can you really deny what you are?”

Louis was gasping, open-mouthed. Tears were brimming in his eyes, and his lips had started to shake. Harry knew it was an act, just as his false jealousy was also a play. Their game. Their false contest. He knew that Louis was his property, just as Louis knew he had Harry wrapped around his little finger.

“Stop it,” Louis whispered, “ _stop_ it, Harry, you know that I love you the most, you know that I do.”

"Oh? How may you prove it?"

"Stop it," Louis whimpered, eyelashes fluttering as Harry moved faster, "please, enough, _please_ -"

"Please what?"

"Stop it," Louis was starting to cry.

Harry kissed him, softly, caringly. “Oh, my darling Louis."

"I love you. Harry, I love you, stop it-"

"Shhh, my sweetheart. I know. I know.” How willingly Harry played the part his boy desired. How willingly he spoke the words this insolent child wanted to hear. "I love you also."

“You tease me,” Louis clutched him, his small body arching beneath Harry’s, “why do you always tease me?”

“Because I cannot resist.” Harry smiled.

Louis smiled at the ceiling too, eyes falling closed as Harry moved faster, as a growl built in Harry’s throat. He smiled wider, gasping with euphoria as Harry buried a hand in his hair, pulled. They were sin incarnate. Killers, lovers, boy and man, child and gentleman. Wasting away their days in decadent sex, the opulence of touch and need.

“Yes,” he moaned, the charade dropped, “I know, Harry.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was so fun to write haha


End file.
